As the sharpened sword beheads the two-headed serpent,I shun the crude laughter and gossip of the mortal world.Thousands of autumns of virtue and vice are buried in the yellow of the earth,Under the sunny . . .
Read MoreWe always wanted to have a bar.We always wanted to have a music bar.We always wanted to have a music bar and call it “The 67”and fill it with album coversfrom that oh-so-glorious yearfor western pop music,call it “The 67” and put it on an enormous signnext to Warhol’s banana.—from Pablo Texón’s . . .
Read MoreCourtesy of Lena Baloch “hello” i say to my reflection.at the level of spittelau i see it. my reflection.recognize it, but not myself in it. these are days on which i believe i’ve forgotten how to walk. on the way back from heiligenstadt i put one foot in front of theother, but . . .
Read MoreHere, the bodies of children. They died at dusk.Instead of bread, fed stones from the sling.Kept from shelter until their bodies stiffened.The sun failed to keep them warm.And she, the greatest sun, could not love them,because of the stones, because of the serpent.—translated from Waldo Williams’ “The Dead Children,” Volume 65, Issue . . .
Read MoreWinter was standing behind him.It imitated his shadowAnd considered itself a tree.It was getting skinny.It felt cold.You’re like a wooden coat hanger prepared to move home.The hat and the four assembled seasonsWouldn’t follow you.They would remain in paper boxes, deepIn their sleep, dreamless and naked.The cat would stay to guard the home.—from . . .
Read MoreCourtesy of Chris Buhalis If you’re gone for good—if you’re history –I’ll know to search along rivers.I’ll look for bones, trace foundations,piece old shapes from shards. But time will take those, too.Strangers arriving with children will runthe length of the ruins for hide-and-seek,squeals of living delight.—from “Always Beside a River,” Volume 65, . . .
Read MoreYou were a wooden coat hanger.Your body, half-clothed. No hat could alter your looks.No gentleman’s hat that tipped to highlightYour smile. You were an exquisite gentleman’sCoat hanger, with pale skinny arms growing upward. The wood grain was fading, paler and paler.The winter, too, was half-clothed. No gentleman’s hatCould disguise the looks of . . .
Read MoreI’m home from work, reading in bed, when Mom calls to tell me. It’s six in the evening. My boyfriend’s out with some friends of his I find exhausting. He’s often out, while I stay in. We’ve been together for almost a decade, our rituals of avoidance calcified into habit. I live . . .
Read MoreOn November 1, 2012—over ten years ago now—I awake to the sound of a generator . . . in another, wealthier building. It is Day Four of the blackout. I cover my nose from the chill in my unheated and lightless apartment. My husband, already awake, wraps his arms around me and . . .
Read More1. CHLORIS HAS HER SAY “If it’s true, Chloris, that you love me,and I’ve heard you do love me well—”was a fresh way for you to begin.After that you lost the thread a bit,scorning ambrosia and the prospectof trading places with kings if my lovewere sure. (No kings were offering.)—from “Anti-Pastorals,” Volume . . .
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